


pretty little love's going to come for you

by Radiolaria



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain Michael Burnham, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Flirting, Homecoming, Neck Kissing, Philippa Georgiou Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: The heat, paperwork and empty apartment are making it difficult for Philippa to truly enjoy her leave on Earth.





	pretty little love's going to come for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).



> [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage) requested domestic fluff and _voilà_!
> 
> Title from Nerina Pallot’s song _It starts_.

Philippa has missed one, of course she has. She has spent the last five minutes inputting the applicants for the new fighting program and cross-referencing them with the file that Jackrum sent her. Without fail, one of her future students is missing.

Knowing the Commander, the probability he sent her a non-updated list is high, but she still has to check again. Every single of the 227 participants. Or 228.

With a sigh, she lets her head roll on the back of the sofa, the PADDs lying idle in her lap, sticking to her naked thighs stretched on the coffee table. The atmosphere is unusually hot in the apartment, not unbearably so, but enough for her to feel sleepy —something must be malfunctioning in the cooling circuit, but she doesn’t have the energy to check it. She is still getting used to working in an environment not as closely monitored as a Federation ship. The training bases on Vega are supposed to mimic the uncertain conditions of deep space colonies, which is… despairing at times.

Groaning, she rocks to her feet and heads to the kitchen, with the firm intention of synthesizing fresh lemon tea. Her hand rubs the back of her neck, assessing the moisture coating the finer hair. She should put this leave to good use and get a haircut —the next rounds of sessions will take place in more inclement environments. Nearly thirty years in Starfleet and she feels like a housecat returned to the wild.

What the hell is she doing there again?

The buzz of the replicator fills the kitchen while she leans against the island she never uses. No time, really. She’s barely here often enough to bother to buy curtains, and San Francisco’s sky needs them badly. At least, all her books have found a spot on a shelf, which was her biggest concern when she moved her pied-à-terre from Kuala Lumpur to be closer to Starfleet’s headquarters.

The tea is probably too fresh for the ambient temperature, but she doesn’t care much. The sharp sensation keeps her awake, against her palate, on her forehead. Feeling defeated, she works her stiff neck and twists her braid into a bun, before padding toward the sofa where her work is waiting.

227 participants, and she takes a long shower, with real water. Or 228.

The entrance door pings open as she is settling back, and she frowns, wondering if her brother has messaged her he would drop by. The head and shoulder peeking past the corner are definitely not her brother’s.

“Michael!” Philippa jumps out of her seat, almost toppling the PADDs in her enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you were back.”

She hasn’t made her way around the sofa that Michael is already standing before her, pristine in her uniform. Her hands find their place on Philippa’s hips and draws her away from the table, a fond smile stretching her lips.

“Philippa, _hello_. I thought you would get pleasure from the surprise.”

Philippa beams in return, studying her features thoroughly in search of tiredness or deception. _Rested,_ or as rested as the captain of a next generation ship can be. Michael arches an eyebrow at Philippa’s close inspection, teasing, and Philippa rolls her eyes.

“Come here,” Philippa whispers as she pulls Michael in for a hug. “I am so happy to see you.”

Michael hums from her shoulder, her rigid stance gradually softening in Philippa’s arms, and within seconds she is nuzzling at Philippa’s neck securely.

She is home.

After a pat on Michael’s back, Philippa leaves her arms and guides her back into the kitchen to offer her a drink.

“I trust you are done on Kessik IV then,” she enquires as the glass fills with Michael’s choice summer beverage, blue lemonade.

Michael takes a greedy gulp and heaves a sigh, eyes closed, her expression so blissful Philippa cannot help chuckling.

“I cannot believe Lieutenant Tilly got you hooked on that drink.”

Michael’s eyes snap open in offense.

“Despite its appearance and oxymoronic denomination, it is highly refreshing.” They are quickly back to the sofa, where Michael drops between the cushions with a understated but satisfied wiggle. “In any case, the crew worked efficiently and Starfleet gave us early discharge for maintenance.”

Removing Michael’s boots, Philippa tsks, “Trouble with your lady?”

“ _Discovery_ is as strong as her crew. But we had to leave behind a core on the ground to help with the crisis and…”

Philippa chortles as she draws Michael’s feet into her lap, seeking her closeness.

“Let me guess, the other cores were damaged upon extraction. I cannot believe you flew home on a time bomb.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up from behind her already half empty glass.

“With Detmer at the helm? The risks were negligible.”

She is _incorrigible_ , tormenting, but it’s preposterous of Philippa to assume her love would exist at all if Michael were any different.

“But catastrophic if they ever came true,” Philippa chides her with a light tap on her leg. “You love it, don’t you?”

The smirk growing on Michael’s lips is an answer in itself.

“Danger keeps me on my toes,” Michael explains, her deep voice teeming with assurance, and Philippa bites her lip, resisting the urge to dip forward and quiet her.

Michael doesn’t leave her time and asks, interested, “How are the kids?”

With an expert shuffle and lift of Michael’s legs, Philippa relocates near Michael on the sofa, heaving a sigh of contentment when an arm snakes between the cushions and circles her waist.

“Improving,” Philippa answers pensively, before grimacing. ”But we fried an entire drive of mission data during a flood. Command was not happy.”

“I won’t ask.”

And Philippa doesn’t really want to elaborate. She’s been back from training for two days now, with one day at HQ to argue with Katrina over the number of counsellors they were granted on Ajilon Prime, and one day in Pulau Langkawi to pick up her brother and say hello to everyone. She’s tired from work, from home, and Michael’s presence feels miraculous, healing.

Philippa draws in a careful breath and murmurs: “Thank you.”

In slow, deliberate movements, Michael buries her head in Philippa’s neck and starts kissing her lightly, taking her time. Brushing her cheek against Michael’s head, Philippa lifts the young woman’s hand to her lips, and presses feather-light kisses across her knuckles.

“You smell like hard work,” Michael mumbles, breathing into her skin.

“Not really a compliment.”

Michael hums and leans back to consider her with gravity.

“I never intended to deliver it as such. It was an incentive to distract you from your duty.”

“Oh, good.” Philippa tilts her head, amused by Michael’s serious frown. “How long are you in town?”

“The engineering team on deck 12 asked for two days to secure the damaged core they’ve identified.” An emphatic sigh escapes Michael. “They will probably be done in one.”

“Your crew is too good for my own good.” Philippa chuckles and bends over to peck her on the lips, her heart swelling when Michael’s lids flutter shut in contentment. “Leaving me languishing on Earth like this.”

Philippa sits back to take a sip of her ever warmer tea and she can swear Michael’s movement on the sofa is an attempt at disguising a discreet whine.

“You were advising sky sailors on Risa five days ago, “Michael scolds her instead. “I would hardly call such an activity languishing _on Earth_.”

Philippa’s hands are back to skidding across Michael’s legs.

“Still, one day…”

An impish spark fires in Michael’s eyes. Philippa holds her breath.

“One day is sufficient for many things,” Michael offers with a certain pomposity and extends a hand to put down her empty glass on the table. “Even, one with the merit of justifying prolonged holo-calls in the near future.”

Back into the sofa, she presses flush against Philippa.

“Do you intend to miss me, Captain Burnham?”, Philippa asks, coyly.

Reverent, Michael stares at her, emotion painted across her features.

“I categorically do.”

Philippa bites back her laughter and puts some distance between them, her hands brushing Michael’s arm as distraction. A blush is rising to her cheeks.

“Such confidence,” she coos in jest. “Do you want to replicate everything here or shall we go out? If I’d known you would be back, I would have picked up fresh vegetables.”

Michael tilts her head with an accusatory glance and retorts, expression delightfully unreadable: “Languishing on Earth is not so abject, all of a sudden.”

Philippa swats her shoulder lightly.

“I would prefer it if we stay in,” Michael adds, leaning close, “if you do not mind.”

“As you wish. You must be tired.”

Michael’s eyebrow arches attractively, but Philippa almost misses it: Michael’s nose brushes gently her cheek, lips grazing hers, hands roaming across her naked shoulders.

“Not so much tired as craving your attention,” Michael rasps.

“Uh uh, was the last mission such a resounding success?” Philippa teases, increasingly distracted. “Success always makes you…”

Michael stops short of taking her lips and looks confidently into Philippa’s eyes.

“Makes me, _Captain_?”

Ever so lovely. Ever so essential. As bright as the sun and as tempting. The death of her, at every moment, of every day, so great is the urge to get consumed by her love, even when they are quadrants apart. If Philippa could wrap herself in her light and never let it go without trapping her she would. As welcome goes, this might be too much for Michael, and they haven’t been living together for long.

Later. Under the cover of their only night.

“Attentive,” Philippa concludes in a breath.

Michael goes to the length of leaning in her ear to speak in a low voice, ”Inaccurate choice of words, _Captain_.”

Philippa’s tut sounds utterly unconvincing to her ears.

“I’m not your captain anymore.”

“You are, Captain, you are,” Michael croaks before pulling her into a searing kiss.


End file.
